April 2008 - San Francisco
My bus arrived in San Francisco around midnight.
I grabbed a map of the city and found the nearest public library.
I love libraries. In school, when other kids ran to the playground during recess, I went to the library and read fantasy stories in a comfortable corner. I learned to research at an early age, so I knew I''d find the information I needed in a library.
The main city library was beautiful. Eight tall stories high, built of granite, with a glass ceiling, providing lots of natural light. Rows of staircases and bookshelves spiraled upwards, resembling a double helix.
I went to the information desk and asked for help finding homeless shelters and job search centers in the city. The librarian didn''t seem surprised. Skinny teenagers must have been inquiring about homeless services with some regularity. She printed a few pages of information, and that''s how I learned about Larkin Street Youth Services.
It was 2008. Some rich bankers had gambled with everyone else''s money, and millions lost their homes. The economy was in freefall. Austerity was the word of the day. Social programs were slashed nationwide. Homelessness was an epidemic. Hundreds of thousands of people from across the nation had come to San Francisco, fleeing poverty, hoping for a better life. In the harsh light of day, I saw them sleeping in abandoned doorways and huddling together for respite from the cold April winds.
Larkin Street Youth Services'' federal budget had been cut in half. It would endure more cuts before the economy rebounded. All 50 beds in the Lark Inn were full. I wrote my name at the bottom of a long list of names, and they told me to check in every day to move up the list. It would be five weeks before a bed opened. They also gave me a paper bag. Inside was a thin PB&J and a banana. A few doors down was the Larkin Drop-In, where homeless youth could rest and eat during the day. Next door was an employment and training center. I asked around, and everyone gave the same advice: make a friend. Find a couch.
I wasn''t very good at making friends and didn''t know how to trust people. So instead, I explored the city, looking for a place to sleep outside. I spent days walking to every corner of the water-walled city. At night, I retrieved my luggage and brought it to the safest place I found on my search. I trespassed at a dozen places or more. No construction site, dark alley, or stairway escaped my consideration. I jumped fences and slept in trees. I passed a thousand homeless people curled up on the sidewalk. Those wretched dark and shivering doorways seemed unambitious. I wanted something more.
I found it on the third day of searching: the rooftop of a parking garage. To reach it, I took an elevator up five floors, stepped out onto a fire escape, climbed some stairs and a ladder, crossed the roof, descended a different ladder, and then jumped onto another roof. But seeing the stars and city at night made it worth the trouble.
My rooftop had a broken water tower, with a man-sized tube for me to crawl in to take shelter from the misty rain. Most nights, the winds carried the music of a homeless saxophonist playing for change on the street below. I gave him more money than I could spare. In truth, it was one of the happiest times of my life.
But nights in San Francisco can be cold and long. Some nights I couldn''t sleep. I''d walk up and down Market Street, stopping at a 24-hour fast food joint to stay warm. The security guards would wake me up whenever I closed my eyes. What little money I had only lasted long enough for my food stamps application to process. When my food stamps ran out, as they did on the third week of every month, I stole food from Walgreens or Safeway.
Next, I started looking for work. Larkin''s employment center helped me improve and print my resume, and by May, I was working as a teller at a check cashing store in the Tenderloin. Locals call the Tenderloin ''an island of poverty in a sea of immense wealth.'' My store''s clients were mainly disabled veterans and societal rejects, either denied service by banks or through their own deliberate disavowal of mainstream society. Some were noble, many were swindlers, most were sad and miserable, but it was a living. By late May, my name reached the top of Larkin''s list, and a bed opened up in the Lark-Inn Shelter.
I dragged my belongings to the shelter and secured them in a locker beside my bed. I shared the room with three other people. Having secured my basic needs, I explored San Francisco and returned to the library to research how to be gay. I read about Castro Street, Harvey Milk, Marsha P. Johnson, Stonewall, and some history of Queer civil rights.
I also learned about cruising. In the before time, pre-internet, gays would walk down the street and try to make eye contact with passersby. If someone met their gaze, they''d turn around after passing to look again.
Since Grindr wasn''t a thing yet, and I had limited access to the internet, I figured I would try my hand at cruising. I walked to Castro Street, San Francisco''s affluent gay district, and found a seat with a view of the sidewalk so I could watch as men passed by.
Like everything else in life, I thought of it as a game or experiment, practicing how to meet people, how to have sex, how to fall in love. And I did want to fall in love.
But what I really wanted was for someone to fix me. I felt broken. Unlovable. I wanted someone to help me put back my broken pieces and quiet my screaming mind, to hold me tight and tell me I was safe and it would all be okay.
Sadly, that''s not what the men on Castro Street wanted from me.
See, I dropped out of high school when I was 16 to work two jobs, and I was never good at making friends, anyway. So my exposure to people outside of my immediate family was limited. I''d never even kissed a boy until three days prior, but that''s a story for a different book. The point is, I was about to be told, over and over again, by total strangers that I was attractive, relatively speaking. Think Ryan Reynolds, but 19.
I only mention it because, from their perspective, I was fresh meat, vulnerable, inexperienced, and ripe for the taking. The way wolves look at a deer alone in the woods. That''s how they saw me. I wanted someone to fix me. They wanted a meal.
I lost count of how many men there were. At first, I thought they wanted me. Then I realized it was my body they wanted. Once they had my body, they''d lose interest in me because that''s the nature of wolves: they''re hunters.
It didn''t do wonders for my already shaky self-esteem. As my sex partners multiplied, so did the number of men who didn''t call or text me back. Every time I returned to Castro to meet someone new, I grew a little more distrusting, a little more certain that something was broken in me. Why else would so many men take me and then forget about me completely?
And when my fears were confirmed, as they often were, the screaming would start. There were no words, not even a noise, just a blood-curdling scream of rage and pain and fear that echoed in my mind. My imagination would envision me pulling my hair and crying and banging my head into things. But in reality, I''d be sitting at a table somewhere on Castro Street, calmly drinking a hot cup of coffee as strangers walked by.
I met a string of fuckbois, narcissists, and drug addicts. I met men who never grew up. Men who tried to fill the void in themselves, sometimes with alcohol, sometimes with sex, or drugs, or money, or something else.
I met more than a few good men. More often than not, I messed something up, and they ghosted me. But I kept meeting people, and as I met more people, I learned more about myself and others. I learned how to communicate.
But the more people I met, the more alien I felt. Alone in the city and utterly inept at intimacy, I had nothing and no one. But I had a few things going for me, namely being a skinny, pretty, white twink with sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes.
You see, the mainstream gay community is racist AF on the DL, with several prejudices, spoken and unspoken, running through it like veins. There are a variety of gay subgroups, most of which serve to reinforce the established hierarchy (adhering to the values of white supremacy, money, and masculine power), but everyone is fetishized and objectified to some extent by someone or other. Gays sort themselves into ''tribes'' of furries, puppies, bears, cubs, otters, wolves, silver foxes, rice queens, white rice, sticky rice, daddies, bros, jocks, twinks, twunks, queens, queers, chubs, chasers of every variety, and many more.
Almost 8 billion people in the world, and everyone has different tastes. No matter who you are or what you look like, someone thinks you''re the sexiest thing alive. But not everyone is in equal demand. Being young, white, and conventionally good-looking opened many doors while shutting a few others. Total strangers wanted things from me and gave me stuff, lots of stuff, just for showing up. And I traded on my good fortune. Alone in San Francisco, I was grateful for whatever reason people were nice to me. God knows not everyone was. Some people were outright cruel. Do you know the song "Another Suitcase in Another Hall" from Evita? I know. Musical reference. Gay. Whatever. That song sets the tone I''m going for here.
Anyway, I don''t remember much. Partly because I was experimenting with drugs and alcohol for the first time and partly because I don''t think there were many memories worth holding onto back then.
But maybe I deserved it. I was insecure, impulsive, and dishonest with myself and, therefore, with everyone else. For that reason, I suspect, people didn''t trust me. Even when I spoke the truth, people didn''t believe me, so I lied more. With every strange man I met, I practiced a different version of myself.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
That''s how I approached each new encounter, like a game. I would envision a better version of myself. Perhaps I''d have no family. Perhaps I''d be visiting from Utah. Perhaps I''d be sweet and naive. Or maybe dark and stoic.
He would take me to dinner somewhere, and I''d watch him watch me, observe his ticks, smiles, and frowns, like a scientist jotting mental notes. Little things like where to put my hands, how to use a knife and fork, how loud I should talk to waiters, fundamental stuff most normal people take for granted. I needed practical experience, and I got it from one man after another. Sometimes I had sex with them. Usually. Not always. Once, I traded sex for money.
I was dating someone at the time. Kevin. Had great hair, a cute dimple when he smiled, and the sex was excellent, but his mind was erratic. His emotions were wild and unpredictable. He was never violent, but he was unstable. Most importantly, he was kind to me. He wanted me around. He was also homeless, and we were about the same age, so we had stuff in common.
One day he suggested I try hustling, as he called it. He said boys like me could make thousands of dollars a week hustling. It was like a rite of passage, he said. Every gay boy in the city does it at least once.
I can neither confirm nor deny that last sentence, but I can say that I did it at least once. I used craigslist to find my john, back before the government gutted craigslist to ''protect us,'' ironically taking power and autonomy out of the hands of vulnerable sex workers.
The john and I talked a bit online at first, exchanging information and the usual. When all was agreed upon, I walked to his house. He was kind and generous. I pretended to be Julia Roberts before she met Richard Gere. You know, confident and sexy, like, I know what I''m doing because I''ve done it all before. The sex was fine, and the money was nice, but I felt cheap. It''s hard to explain. I would have had sex with the same guy for free. He was good-looking and seemed nice enough. It was an otherwise normal hook-up, except this time, I was paid for it. And for whatever reason, I didn''t like that. I thought I''d be pleased. I got off, and I made some quick cash, but I didn''t like feeling up for sale.
So I bought a caramel frappuccino from Starbucks to make myself feel better. An impractical thing. A luxury I couldn''t afford, a lifestyle I wasn''t born into but could taste for a small price. Next, I bought an MP3 player, so I could listen to music again. The first albums I downloaded were "Attack and Release" by the Black Keys and "The Sunset Tree" by the Mountain Goats. I spent the rest on necessities, like minutes on my phone, deodorant, razors, and other things food stamps can''t buy.
I resolved not to do sex work again. It wasn''t a traumatic experience. I don''t regret it, but I didn''t enjoy it. I also decided to end things with Kevin. I had enough problems without adding his to the mix. He later went to prison for money laundering, so leaving was probably the right call on my part.
Meanwhile, Lark-Inn Shelter had an 8 pm curfew. So at the end of each day, I would wait outside for my name to be called. If I wasn''t present, Lark-Inn would give my bed away to someone else, and I would fall back to the bottom of the list. For a month, I drifted to sleep listening to the snores and farts of forty-nine other street urchins; my spiral ring notebook on the floor next to my bed, so I could write notes of my dreams. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of Eden.
Chapter 2 - Apple
Apple found herself in the castle hall as if walking from one dream into another. Moonlight shined brightly through the windows but couldn''t illuminate how she got here. Report back to Avalyn, she thought, but there was something else, too; something she mustn''t tell him, something she mustn''t think about, and she didn''t try.
The door to Steward Avalyn''s private quarters was rustic and unadorned. Apple rapped her tiny knuckles against the dense slab of wood, summoning the faintest of sounds, struggling to be heard against the cacophony in the great hall. A celebration in honor of Rafael''s victory would likely last through the night.
The door swung open, and Apple looked up to see the imposing form of Captain Reynard. The captain was strikingly handsome, with chiseled features and a broad, muscular physique.
Apple hopped into the formal dignity of Arthur Avalyn''s office. The walls were scarcely decorated with images of historical significance. One painting, titled ''Wrath of Godfather,'' hung on the wall behind Steward Avalyn''s desk. It depicted Adam, armored, floating midair, his golden locks flowing angelically in the wind. In tragic and gorgeous detail, the painting conveyed devastation and sorrow, as a massive landmass was being swallowed by the ocean. Eden''s molten blood erupted, and massive tidal waves advanced to engulf it all. The Godfather appeared grief-stricken as He massacred countless thousands, but also determined.
Steward Arthur Avalyn sat beneath the painting, looking skeptical. Captain Reynard shut the door and moved to stand at Arthur''s side.
"You''ve been watching Brother Timothy for hours." The steward spoke with gravity, considering each word carefully. Arthur made no secret of his disdain for the monkey. He had an unreserved distrust of all familiars. Still, Lyn needed a translator and companion, and Arthur loved his weird daughter dearly. "What did you observe?" His head tilted barely.
Apple tried to remember the last few hours but couldn''t. Her memories were shrouded in a dense fog. Then suddenly, unbidden, words flew from her lips.
"Shortly after his arrival, Brother Timothy spoke with the Godfather in the guest mirror. Then he spent several hours in the castle records examining historical accounts. He was particularly interested in the Colonial Era."
Steward Avalyn leaned forward with a hungry look in his eyes. "What did Timothy and Adam discuss?"
"Timothy had suspicions that a fae had somehow survived the Cleansing and was hiding somewhere at the tournament." Apple was confused. Why would she say all that? Arthur, meanwhile, gave the little monkey his most rapt attention.
"Has Timothy surmised the identity of the fae?" Arthur''s voice was deadly calm.
"No. He detected trace evidence of fae spellwork, but there were too many people at the tournament to pin down. Godfather tasked Timothy with finding the fae fugitive, exterminating it, and bringing to justice anyone sheltering it."
Steward Avalyn sat back in his chair and silently contemplated the familiar with unnerving intensity.
"Did they discuss Rafael or a Vulpen Stewardship?" Arthur finally asked.
"Yes. Brother Timothy had great praise for the combat prowess and popularity of Rafael. Godfather was optimistic that the Vulpen Islands would be in good hands." Apple said mindlessly. Arthur sat back in his chair, contemplative but seemingly satisfied.
"Apple." Captain Reynard addressed her now. "I''m told familiars can access the memories of other familiars around Eden. Has any familiar seen Timothy? Are there memories of him? Who is he?"
Apple closed her eyes and let her mind slip into the Aether. She held the image of Brother Timothy in her mind, then released it into streams of cosmic consciousness that connected all familiars. Memories came to Apple like sudden inspiration.
"Timothy was born in the capital," she told them. "When he was 8, an accident left him a simpleton. After that, his mother gave him to the Church. Timothy joined the seminary as soon as he recovered. That was 30 years ago. It seems he spent most of his life in the same church his mother left him. Most archived memories of Timothy are of him scrubbing floors and cleaning stables."
"That makes no sense," Arthur interjected. "How did a simple peon become an emissary for the Godfather?" He watched as Apple''s eyes darted behind her eyelids as if she were dreaming.
"There are no memories explaining his elevated status. Before his arrival today, the last archived memory of Timothy was four months ago, performing janitorial duties."
Arthur and Reynard shared a meaningful glance.
"Thank you, Apple," said the steward. "You''re dismissed. Return to Lyn."
The monkey familiar curtsied cutely and retreated the way she entered.
Steward Arthur Avalyn reached into his desk drawer and retrieved a cigar. "You want one?" he offered Captain Reynard.
"Are we celebrating?" Reynard asked with dry insolence as he secured the door. Joyous celebrations could still be heard echoing down the castle halls. Arthur clipped his cigar and lit it smoothly, his cool unshaken.
"Why shouldn''t we celebrate? Rafael will be Steward of Vulpex, and Adam hasn''t a clue." Arthur sat back in his chair and puffed with satisfaction. "Timothy''s on to you, but we can figure that out. Worst case scenario, we kill him and make it look like an accident. I think this is a good day."
"It doesn''t make sense," Reynard said. "The monkey said Timothy was some brain-damaged orphan who spent his life behind church walls. Now, mysteriously, he''s a good brother with a mirror window to Adam himself. Either Timothy isn''t who he seems to be, or the familiar is lying."
"They''re probably different people. The monkey confused him for a look-alike." Arthur set his cigar down and rose to walk to his cabinet. He poured two drinks and handed one to Reynard, a stiff honey mead mulled with ginger. "I think our more pressing concern is keeping you a secret," Arthur continued. "We need you far away from Timothy where he can''t trace your magic. We''ll bring you back after Timothy has been dealt with. There''s no need to change the plan now."
Reynard drank his mead and ruminated. "Maybe you''re right. It''s a lucky thing I wasn''t discovered at the tournament, but it doesn''t matter what happens to me. If Timothy figures out what Rafael is, what he''s capable of... Adam will kill him and trap his soul forever. We lose everything."
Arthur returned to sit pensively on his desk, smoke elegantly rising from his cigar. "We''ve taken every precaution possible where Rafael is concerned. He''s not the one presently in danger of getting us all caught. We need to get you out of sight. Go to Sanctuary. Leave tonight. Inform your mistress once you arrive. Speaking of, have you dreamt of Lilith lately?"
Reynard sighed. "Not for many nights. A dream of her would put my mind at ease. This business with Brother Timothy makes me uneasy. I''ll go to Sanctuary, but I won''t sit and wait. Let me bring Lyn. She used magic today. I can teach her to control and harness her abilities. It''s the perfect opportunity. No one would know."
Arthur''s head was swirling, and he steadied himself on his desk. Reynard put his hand on Arthur''s hand and addressed him directly. "Original Sin is progressing exponentially. There aren''t many humans left who can wield mana." Reynard paused to look at the painting over Arthur''s desk, ''Wrath of Godfather,'' in glorious and terrifying detail.
"That''s what we''re up against. Mages are rare enough. We need to know what Lyn is capable of. She could prove invaluable."
Arthur''s mind was reeling. Emma died giving birth to Lyn. Their marriage was arranged under the conditions of Vulpex''s surrender. He resented Emma for years, but they learned to love each other. When Emma died, Arthur was devastated. As such, he loved Lyn with precious affection, being the last link to his beloved. Letting her go so soon into the harsh and wild world tore at him. But Arthur was accustomed to grief. He knew what they were up against.
"I suppose you''ll need mana for the road," Arthur relented.
"If you want," Reynard replied, and Arthur nodded.
"It would be nice... to see her again... before you go," he said softly.
The air around Captain Reynard rippled like smoke over a fire, and in an instant, he was gone, and instead, Emma stood in front of Arthur once more. Tears filled his eyes, and a sad smile broke his lips as she leaned in to kiss him one last time.